Anton Chekhov Quotes

Death is the wish of some, the relief of many, and the end of all.

For as long as the world spins and the earth is green with new wood, she will lie in this box and not in my arms.

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

Till I, high in the tower of my time Among familiar ruins, began to cry For accident, sickness, justice, war and crime, Because all died, because I had to die. The snow fell, the trees stood, the promise kept, And a child I slept.

The living blind and seeing Dead together lie As if in love . . . There was no more hating then, And no more love; Gone is the heart of Man.

Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born.

Death hath a thousand doors to let out life.

When the friends we love the best Lie in their churchyard bed, We must not cry too bitterly Over the happy dead.

When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.

With what shift and pains we come into the World we remember not; but 'tis commonly found no easy matter to get out of it.

Death is just a change in lifestyles.

Three causes especially have excited the discontent of mankind; and, by impelling us to seek remedies for the irremediable, have bewildered us in a maze of madness and error. These are death, toil, and the ignorance of the future.

She's not dead. You didn't kill her, nor did the hunger birds, although they did their best to get to you through her. She's been given her ocean. One day, in its own time, the ocean will give her back.I thought of corpses and of skeletons with pearls for eyes. I thought of mermaids with tails that flicked when they moved, like my goldfishes' tails had flicked before my goldfish had stopped moving, to lie, belly up, like Lettie, on the top of the water. I said, 'Will she be the same?

How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change.

In his dream she was sick and he cared for her. The dream bore the look of sacrifice but he thought differently. He did not take care of her and she died alone somewhere in the dark and there is no other dream nor other waking world and there is no other tale to tell.

The old woman dies, the burden is lifted.

The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

In our memories, there is a graveyard where we bury our dead. They all lie there together, the loved ones and the ones we hated, friends and foes and kin, with no distinction among them. We have to mourn every one of them, because our memories have made them as much a part of us as our bones or our skin. If we don't, we've no right to remember anything at all.

Death is the loss of everything all at once.

Death is the great transition.

Death is no fiend, he is the truest of friends. He delivers us from agony.

Most men ebb and flow in wretchedness between the fear of death and the hardship of life; they are unwilling to live, and yet they do not know how to die.

Death is mighty, and is no one's friend.

But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.